


Your Soul and My Soul are Best Mates

by purplebullet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, friendship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplebullet/pseuds/purplebullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because they are not special people (though one of them does like to believe he is), but the way they've managed to be around each other, most definitely is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Soul and My Soul are Best Mates

The only need there is in the world, is to survive. There are the basic needs, of course, like water and food, and perhaps, if you're lucky, a roof over your head. Then there are other needs, other aspects in life that keep many around. Love, for one thing, is a very popular aspect. It comes in different shapes; a significant other, or perhaps an adoration for something inexplicably important. Like a hobby, but with a stronger meaning behind the word.

Then, there are the less popular aspects. They are far more difficult to explain, as love has nothing to do with it, though it is a sort of feeling that runs deep in the veins. It doesn't require sentiment or to be ruled by the head or the heart, it just _is_. And it will never not be.

To the many -- though, compared to the number of humans in the world, few -- people in the world who posses this need, like an order that must be carried out no matter what, this is both a blessing and a torture. When capable of living for it, whether it is an action or a view or perhaps nothing like that at all, there is only heaven. When taken away, hell is what remains.

Heaven merely has a single way of presenting itself. Absorption. No attention is paid to anything or anyone else but that one, blessed need that keeps a person alive, because every single drop of it is focused on that one thing. This is why such humans are often called 'anti-social', and, in the end, a sociopath. The outsiders simply don't know how to deal with it, so naming and avoiding it is as far as they go. It calms them down as well, as anything they cannot define scares them. They are considered the weaker humans, but only by those who have these names thrown at them. Good thing they're too occupied to actually care.

Hell, on the other hand, comes in many forms. That's why there are many ways to try and cope with it, though it is not as simple as giving it a name and getting on with life. Not as simple by far.

Hell is an imprisonment, either literally or figuratively, and has made many victims already. There are those who opt for suicide (a popular one amongst the outsiders as well) or any other kind of harm, whether to themselves or those surrounding them is optional and depending on the situation. There is mental suffering, where no one around notices a thing; sometimes because they don't pay attention, other times because the victim is too clever for his own good. There are those who recover, thanks to the mercy of others or their own strength, and there are ones who don't. They, if they haven't passed away already, become mental.

But not all those who have gone insane are humans with rarer needs. The outsiders, the ones with love as their motive to keep going, have their own batch of crazy too. They just tend not to be noticed, and if they are, they won't be known for long. The government will take care of that, as it always does. (Has it been mentioned that every person working for this so-called divine institute is an outsider?)

There is no defined line between all these people, nothing that splits them into two separate groups. Yet there are many, from both sides, who feel somehow isolated. Perhaps something is missing, or simply just wrong, incomplete. Like the Yin has gone from the Yang, the water has lost its fire. But nothing is ever done about it, and so nothing ever changes. A lot of humans don't feel anything at all, of course; either because they have contact with everyone or because they're just not paying attention. It is said the latter happens more frequently, which is, frankly, the most credible possibility.

The best possibility is the former. And that is the one that's been chosen, perhaps by fate, for two people in the middle of London. Sadly enough, neither of them has paid any attention to it, which is, given the opportunity to feel as a whole, quite a pity.

The man staying alive for love is an ex-army doctor who thrives on action -- this is his addiction. The man staying alive for that inexplicable reason that has nothing to do with sentiment whatsoever, is a consulting detective -- this self-invented job is what drives him day after day. They have met, which isn't a rare occurrence, but they have become close friends, which hardly ever happens. Naturally no one knows because no one looks for it, or waves it off as 'two incompatible souls'. Which is true, in one way, but not for the reasons they often think.

These two souls, each so different it's easy to break them apart, have found a way to live together, be close without leaving or killing one another, and that is what makes them powerful. Because they are not special people (though one of them does like to believe he is), but the way they've managed to be around each other, most definitely is.

\--

"Morning," John greeted, still half asleep, as he entered the kitchen. He paused to give Sherlock the opportunity to answer, but when he hadn't by the time John had taken the kettle and started filling it up, John carried the conversation on by himself.

"Slept well, thank you. How about you?" The answer to it was obvious. "Not at all, I'd say."

John turned to Sherlock after putting the kettle on the stove. He was still hunched over what looked like a tiny ball of dust lying on a paper on the table.

"Studying dust again?"

There was always a chance Sherlock would respond with a long explanation involving difficult words -- sometimes included just to confuse John, or simply to seem superior -- but today didn't seem to be one of those days. Also fine; John could do without confusion in the half-awake, half-asleep state he found himself in. Those were the mornings he'd had an exceptional good night -- with deep, undisturbed sleep.

"Want some tea?"

By now he didn't expect any form of response, which he didn't get anyway. All the better, it meant more tea for him. And, if he were in luck, more breakfast.

"Do we still have some cereal?" John questioned himself out loud, hoping that perhaps, if Sherlock started feeling enough sympathy towards poor, unfed John (or got annoyed enough at his voice constantly interrupting whatever experiment he was conducting now), he'd give John an answer. No such thing happened.

It didn't matter, John had already opened the cupboard and was standing on his toes to take a look at the upper shelf, finding it miraculously filled with a cereal box. Frosties. However childish, they did taste good, and whenever Sherlock let John borrow his card John didn't care about how much money he spent. Sometimes.

"My lucky day," he said cheerfully, shaking the box in victory as he held it up to show Sherlock. His smile vanished when he didn't hear anything being shaken, and upon closer inspection his cheerful mood was entirely gone. He sighed. No Frosties for breakfast, then.

"We're out of milk anyway," Sherlock provided, helpful as ever. At first John thought it was meant to cheer him up, but when he took a look at Sherlock again he saw the ghost of a grin on his face.

"Used it to experiment on the dust, have you?"

Sherlock smiled at the accusation, probably at the impossibility of it, which, considering Sherlock had experimented with stranger things, felt a bit out of place. It was perfectly credible for him to use the milk on any of his test subjects, or so John thought. And since he was Sherlock's flatmate, and therefore nearly constantly aware of the experiments taking place in the shared kitchen, he was probably right to find milk a normal thing to use during such experiments. Sherlock pushed the boundaries of normal practically every day.

"You don't happen to feel like popping out and getting us something from the shop, do you?"

"No, John," Sherlock answered, moving the paper to a horizontal position. "I don't feel like _popping out_."

John smiled. "You're not an out-popper, then?"

"No."

Sometimes it was funny how serious Sherlock was about things, genuinely not realizing how the subject at hand was not to be taken seriously in the first place. This was one of those times, and it left John smiling widely as usual.

"I'll do the popping out then," he said, letting the amusement seep into his voice without a worry. Sherlock wouldn't catch up on it. If he hadn't been busy he only would've realized something was off, but he'd never figure out what.

Without waiting for an answer John exited the kitchen, dragging his feet happily across the floor. His splendid night rest had done wonders. He felt like a new man.

"You watch the kettle for me, Sherlock?" he called out as he entered the hallway, not bothering to hear the reply Sherlock wouldn't give anyway as he made his way upstairs to get changed.

*

The morning air had done him good; he hadn't even minded that the shop next to the flat had been closed, that he had to walk to the little bakery at the end of the street. The air had been refreshing, and it'd had its effect on John.

"Sherlock," he announced as he climbed up the stairs in a nearly enthusiastic manner, "I got you some cake. The one from Manny's Bakery."

A couple of turns into the flat later John found Sherlock the exact way he'd left him, with exception of the paper that was lying vertically again. And the lessened amount of dust on top of it. For a moment John was tempted to ask if he'd eaten it.

"Cake?" he asked as he held up the paper bag in his hand. He watched Sherlock for a good ten seconds before he moved into the kitchen, placing the bag on the counter. When he glanced at the kettle he noticed the lack of steam coming out of it, which made him turn around and look at Sherlock again in surprise.

"You didn't put it on," Sherlock said simply. John opened his mouth, then closed it with a frown, and turned to the kettle again. The stove did indeed indicate it wasn't working.

Sherlock sneezed. The sound was so startling it erased all of John's thoughts instantly, and got him to turn back to Sherlock once more, this time a look of shock on his face. Sherlock's nose looked a bit reddish. It was absolutely an adorable sight, and therefore a hilarious one.

"Catch a cold?" John asked as casually as he could, all his efforts not to burst out into laughter ruined when Sherlock fixed him with a glare.

~*~

"For God's sake, John, use your head for once," Sherlock demanded, twirling in his gown before he dramatically took a seat in the sofa. "You can't be that stupid."

"Well _sorry_ we're not all as intellectual as you, Mr. Consulting Detective," John snarled back sarcastically. He'd had to put up with Sherlock's foul mood the entire day and it was rubbing off on him.

"Just because I actually think every once in a while doesn't make me intellectual, it makes you an idiot."

John clenched his teeth, balled his hands into fists and stared hard at Sherlock. He wasn't even going to bother to sit down; it was very likely he was going to leave in a few moments for a couple of hours, preferably until morning but seeing as he was between girlfriends he couldn't do such thing. He kept silent until Sherlock looked at him, and when he did he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Oh don't act like you're the victim here. A woman died, if you can recall."

Lately John noticed Sherlock had been using that sympathy trick to try and make John come to his senses. It was starting to get on his nerves, actually.

"I do recall," John gritted out, "And I also recall you've been acting even more like a prick than usual today, including just now when you were insulting me."

"Please, I always insult you," Sherlock said with a wave of the hand, eyes closing. John took a deep breath that didn't have its calming effect.

"Right then. Well, if that's all you need me for then you obviously don't require my assistance now."

John rapidly descended the stairs to get away as soon as possible. He was sick and tired of Sherlock's behaviour and didn't want anything--

"Don't be childish, John!"

John pulled to a halt automatically, nearly at the bottom of the stairs. He turned around slowly, a look of disbelief settling on his face with an equal speed. The worst was that he needed to go up again because _of course_ Sherlock hadn't even bothered to get out of the sofa. He probably hadn't even opened his eyes.

It was infuriating to see Sherlock sitting there like a statue. John absolutely hated that part of him sometimes; to appear unmoved, unable to be affected by anything. It was most definitely one of Sherlock's worst traits.

" _Childish_?" John repeated silently, almost in a whisper, from his position in the doorway. " _I'm_ \-- _I'm_ childish?"

John had to fight every muscle in his body to not go up to Sherlock and punch him when the man remained silent. He could be insanely infuriating. It was even more infuriating to think he was most likely doing it on purpose.

"If you're running out on a disagreement while solving this case is far more important then yes, you're childish."

While he was right, in some sense, John was far past admitting that truth. It didn't matter anyway. Well, it _did_ but sometimes with Sherlock, it didn't even when it did.

"This isn't about what's more important," John started, then stopped himself when he realized he'd raised his voice. He sighed. "You know what, I don't want to talk about it."

"No," Sherlock drawled almost lazily, refilling John with anger. "You never do. Did your psychiatrist ever mention 'confrontation issues'?"

"What--"

"Oh!" Sherlock's eyes snapped wide open, his mouth set in an 'o'-shape, and before long he was bolting up from his seat. "Issues! Of course!"

He didn't bother to take his coat, which he'd hung on the chair at the desk, and breezed past John to run down the stairs, excitement audible in his mere steps.

"I've been so _blind_! That I even missed it!"

While John was starting to get curious as to what Sherlock had apparently discovered, he was still too angry with him to ask about it, like he normally did.

"Come on, John," Sherlock called out, his voice becoming more distant as he ran out the front door. The lack of sound which indicated the door had been closed meant Sherlock expected John to follow. He wasn't going to.

Good riddance that was. With Sherlock out of the way for a bit John could have some time to himself, like he'd wanted, and try not think murderous thoughts with Sherlock as the victim. He briefly wondered how long it would take Sherlock to notice his absence, but decided to just wait and see instead of pondering about it. It was a useless effort anyway. With Sherlock, you never knew.

John's head snapped to the windows when he heard a car honking. It was loud even in the middle of the day, with all the other citizens driving around, and inevitably drew John to take a look outside. Across the road a taxi stood there, waiting, the indication for the waiting part being the long, dark figure standing behind it, holding the door open. John shut the curtains.

~*~

They only needed to exchange a look to dissolve into snickering, confusing the surrounding police men, Lestrade included. Too perplex to say anything, Lestrade just watched as both Sherlock and John shared a seemingly incomprehensible joke, and a very inappropriate one at that.

"Is something funny?" Donovan snapped, voice strained to keep the volume down.

"No, no," John hurried to say before Sherlock would, "Nothing's funny. Sorry."

He knew it was a lousy excuse, and for that he didn't have to see the pissed off looks on everyone's face. Seeing them did make him feel a bit guilty, if not embarrassed, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. At least Sherlock was in this with him.

"No please," Donovan insisted, a smile creeping on her lips that looked as sinister as the tone she used. "Enlighten us."

"No, really--"

"I _insist_."

John didn't want to tell them about the inside joke. It was all Lestrade's fault anyway, for making that accidental word play on the victim's dangerous job that had led to his death. Actually it was Sherlock's fault for sharing his earlier acquired information with John and making a comment on it that was highly out of place, but incredibly funny nevertheless. But John couldn't tell it, he wouldn't. It was simply too much.

"Be a professional for once, Donovan, and leave unrelated subjects out of this," Sherlock said, stepping forward to take over for John. Donovan nearly looked like she'd have steam coming out of her ears any time soon.

Then Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who'd been pretty much gaping at the entire scene until now, and began rambling off about everything he knew about the victim -- which turned out to be quite a lot, since it took him three breaths to explain it all. John made a mental note not to let Sherlock comment on any of the victims ever again, and also to offer Sherlock a hint as to where he'd hidden his secret stash this time. He'd deserved it.

~*~

It had only been a month, and yet here he was again. Another abandoned factory, perhaps a large garage of some sorts, and another useless conversation with Mycroft.

"Are you expecting rain today?" John asked, keeping his eyes off the umbrella on purpose.

Mycroft gave him a fake amused smile, turning his head to the left a bit as he did, and took a breath to continue the purpose of this kidnapping.

"Sherlock's been up to something lately," he began, and at that John snorted.

"When hasn't he."

They both knew why it didn't have to be a question.

"Something big this time," Mycroft continued, undisturbed. "Something I'd rather not let happen."

"Then stop him."

"I can't." It was strange that, despite Mycroft had more reason to carry pride than Sherlock, he was still the one to be completely honest about his capabilities. It also made things easier, which was why John prefered talking to him than his brother sometimes. Though not really, since at least Sherlock didn't kidnap him.

"Then neither can I."

"You can," Mycroft said, managing to put the utmost conviction in those two words. "And you must."

John was a bit surprised he hadn't used the word 'will'. He probably knew it wouldn't have worked on him anyway. John raised his eyebrows to show Mycroft he was listening, which in no way meant he would co-operate. That had been established between them as well, a long time ago. Too long for John's liking.

"If he continues, he will cause a certain amount of damage to my work." The government, then. "An amount I can't afford to have damaged."

"If you know what he'll damage then why can't you stop him from doing it?"

John was thinking security guards, or any kind of guards. Surely Mycroft was powerful enough to get the best of the best, even if they were foreign.

"Only those who can get close to him can stop him, and as you are the only person in his surroundings..."

"Ah, I see. You already know my answer to this."

"I know I can't offer you money," Mycroft started slowly, playing with the handle of his umbrella. "But I can offer you your safety." Mycroft's smile was a lot more real this time when John frowned. It wasn't a good sign. "When I suffer the consequences, so will you."

John couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He cocked his head. "Did you just... _threaten_ me?"

"Did I?" Mycroft asked innocently, or so he meant to. Not even a deaf person would buy it.

"You can't do that," John said, and stood up from the chair. "I'm leaving."

"I need you to stop him, John," Mycroft said as John turned around and began to walk away. It ended like this way too many times. "If you don't..."

"Then what," John said dryly, not bothering to face the man, "You'll get your snipers to kill me? You'll never get away with that."

Sherlock would make sure of that, but the statement didn't need to be spoken aloud. They both knew, and this was where John had the upper hand. That, they were also aware of.

*

"You should've called me," Sherlock said the moment he lay eyes on John.

"They took my phone," John replied, mildly irritated. Paranoia seeped in as well as he realized they could've done something to it while they'd had it in possession, and so he quickly checked the contents as far as he could.

"You were right," Sherlock then said, a sentence he didn't use much. It made John look up at him again. "I'd never let him get away with it."

John smiled.

"No need to worry anyway," the consulting detective continued casually, crossing his legs. "It's not as important as he's made it out to be."

"Right," John scoffed. "Didn't seem important at all. He threatened me, no big deal."

"It's the diet," Sherlock said, and John stilled immediately. "He knows I've been trying to figure out ways to sneak in sugars and other ingredients into his food and he's worried."

While John thought Mycroft never worried, he got more stuck on the diet part. Surely he hadn't understood... Perhaps it was a code word for nuclear bomb or something? But no, John had heard Sherlock's feigned curiosity towards it far too often, and aside from that he knew Sherlock felt too superior to use code words. He probably ought them stupid.

And right now, John ought himself stupid. Sherlock smiled at him.

"Oh don't worry," he said reassuringly, that hint of amusement brimming on the edge of his voice. "He'll survive gaining a pound or two, three, ten. And so will you."

Despite himself, John laughed. His life was ridiculous, always had been ever since he'd met Sherlock, but it was oddly enough delightful as well.

~*~

There was a dead twenty-something-year-old lying with his head in the fire place with what could only be called a semi-melted face, yet the man hadn't died from burning up. True, the fire hadn't reached his throat, at least not visibly, so John bet the larynx had been burned and that was the cause of the man's death -- choked due to fire, and not, as usual (if that was to be applied here), due to the smoke the fire produced.

Sherlock extinguished that theory (a line John told himself to remember to put in the blog later) by unmasking the victim -- literally. He _literally_ pulled off what appeared to be a very cunningly fabricated mask and revealed the dead man's face, which looked perfectly fine. He was dead, though, John had made sure of that.

"Jesus," Lestrade mumbled, "Is this Scooby Doo or something?"

John would've briefly laughed and helpfully provided that if looking at it that way, Sherlock did turn out to be Lestrade's sniffer dog, and quite literally too. Except he was too astonished to do so. He watched with widened eyes as Sherlock held out the rubberish mask to him, which looked like a second skin that had just been shed. John needed a moment there was another reason for Sherlock to hold it out to him like that other than wanting to show off.

"Right," he said, voice softer than a whisper, "I'll go get..." John pushed himself up from his crouch and headed to the forensic equipment scattered across the dresser in the hallway. They always had some plastic bags to spare, especially after John had started tagging along and nicking stuff for Sherlock.

When he returned Lestrade was holding the mask. He held it eye-level, studying it as if he was going to deduce shit from it like Sherlock already had, and looked more than relieved when he noted John's return.

"Here," he said as he slid it in the small bag John held open for him, and zipped up immediately. "God."

"Yeah."

Their heads both turned into Sherlock's direction, who had wrenched himself in the fire place to eagerly investigate the correct face. Neither John or Lestrade spoke the entire time, their eyes never leaving Sherlock. Sometimes, there were no words to be found.

~*~

It was actually unbelievable this was happening. Sherlock in his flat, in the morning, making him coffee. It didn't make sense. Not only the coffee making (though that, in retrospect, too), but the fact that Sherlock was _there_. _Alive_.

John took a steadying breath before he entered the kitchen. It barely fit the small, round table inside it and therefore left little space for moving around, especially with two people in it. It was one of the rare times John had company, though he was certain this one particular time would be engraved in his memory forever.

Sherlock didn't say good morning. John didn't either. Couldn't.

He squeezed himself past Sherlock to get to his usual seat at the table. The contact was awkward, as their backs slid against each other, and it reminded John how real this was. He'd never been the kind to imagine things -- except for the pain in his leg -- so he hadn't been expecting Sherlock to turn into a see-through ghost or the like. It was still unbelievable strange, and the knowledge that Sherlock had been alive for the past three years was very... angering.

But, well. John had had his rage the day before, yelling obscenities and cursing like he hadn't since the first time he'd caught Harry cheating on her booze diet. Sherlock had been surprised, unable to hide the emotion even though his face had been straining for blank, but he'd taken every curse in stride, not flinching once. Barely blinking. Barely breathing. _But he'd been alive_. And he still was, the morning after. Obviously.

John watched Sherlock pour coffee in two separate mugs. Surely he knew he was being looked at, which was likely the reason for his feigned casualty while in reality he'd rather not look at John. Understandable. Still the least he could do after putting John through all the grief and the loss. John swallowed, ignored the difficulty.

It was nearly unnoticeable, but when the mugs were filled Sherlock hesitated. Only a moment. A blink. But John saw it, had seen it, and knowing how the situation really did bother Sherlock, genuinely, he couldn't stop himself from taking a hold of his arm when Sherlock put down a mug in front of him. Sherlock froze, subtly, but still didn't look at John. That was all right. He'd probably seen enough of John over the years, if he still had the tendency to follow him around. But John hadn't seen _him_ , so he figured he was allowed to look. (Even if he hadn't been allowed he still would've done it. Would've done it even if death were the punishment.)

"Morning," John said, so softly he wasn't sure Sherlock had heard him. He nearly hadn't caught it himself.

It felt like the wrong thing to say, but there was nothing else to say. Sherlock had already explained, John was already in the process of forgiving, right now in the state of _holy hell he's alive and I can touch him again_. Which was why he did touch. It was merely an arm -- and not even a bare one -- but it was something. It was something that belonged to Sherlock, and it was alive.

John stood up from his chair, the screechy sound it made painful to the ears but forgotten easily in the moment. Sherlock was still in the same position he'd stilled in, leaning over to hand John his coffee, and his eyes focused on anything that didn't belong to John. John gently tugged his arm, squeezed it softly, willing Sherlock to respond. To look. To see him, like John was seeing him.

Sherlock looked up. He seemed vulnerable from this height, with him standing lower than John -- a one time occurrence, most definitely -- and John acted on that ridiculous feeling of sentiment that Sherlock didn't understand. He put his arms around Sherlock. Around his shoulders, a bit bony but surprisingly broad. Buried his face in his neck, surprisingly warm, giving off a scent he'd long forgotten.

John breathed out. With it, all the problems in the world -- or his world, at least -- seemed to disappear. The universe was at balance again. Life could go on.


End file.
